“As we came back from the dining-hall into company quarters, our captain was standing at the door of the company hall; we were made to go in, and there the captain announced to us that our little comrade, L No. II, had fallen asleep that night, never to wake again. “The captain was a very good man--he fell in 1866, a brave hero--he loved his cadets, and as he gave us the news, he had to wipe the tears from his beard. Then he ordered us all to fold our hands; one of us had to step forward and before all say ‘Our Father’ out loud--” The colonel bowed his head. “Then for the first time,” said he, “I felt how really beautiful is the Lord’s Prayer. “And so, the next afternoon, the door that led from the infirmary to the outdoor gymnasium opened, the hateful, ominous door. “We were made to step down into the court of the infirmary; we were to see once more our dead comrade. “Our steps shuffled with a dull and heavy sound as we were marched over there; no one spoke a word; one heard only a heavy breathing. “And there lay little L, poor little L! “In his white little shirt he lay there, his hands folded on his breast, his golden locks curled about his forehead, which was white like wax; the cheeks so sunken that the beautiful, delicate little nose projected quite far--and in his face--the expression--” The old colonel was silent, the breath came choking from his bosom. “I have grown to be an old man,” he went on falteringly--“I have seen men lying on the field of battle--men on whose faces stood written distress and despair--such heart sorrow as I saw in the face of this child I have never seen before or since--never--never--” A deep stillness took possession of the wine-room where we were sitting. As the old colonel became silent and spoke no word more, the waiter rose softly from his corner and lit the gas-jet that hung over our heads; it had grown quite dark. I took up the wine bottle once more, but it was now almost empty--just one tear still crept slowly out--one last drop of the good blood. FOOTNOTES: [6] The title conferred in Prussia on the candidate who has passed the first of the two examinations held before appointment as judge. [7] “Die Bollen,” a term of dislike among the Berlin cadets. DELIVERANCE BY MAX SIMON NORDAU [Illustration] _The fame of “Degeneration,” that vigorous polemic against abnormal vice, has so overshadowed Max Nordau’s other literary accomplishments that it will be a surprise to many American readers to see his name among the master foreign writers of short stories. “Degeneration” has only an ethical value and does not rank by any means with the author’s best literary work, for he has written, besides short stories of great merit, novels, essays, satires, critiques--all more or less bold attacks on existing conventionalities._